I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, Winchester style. More or less, simply a tale full of schmoop. The brothers spend time celebrating the holiday in their own special way. Rated T for some swearing in the beginning.


This is just flat out brotherly schmoop. I can't really say much more about it. A schmoopy Winchester Christmas present.

Apologies if it's too sappy.

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Disclaimer: Neither the boys nor anything related to Supernatural belongs to me. I'm just playing around with Eric Kripke's masterpiece of creation.

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**I'll Be Home for Christmas**

**By: Vanessa Sgroi**

"Aw, c'mon, Sammy, you can't stay mad at me forever."

"Yes. I. Can."

"Dude, it's been two—almost three—whole days. And now it's Christmas Eve. C'mon." Dean Winchester reached out a hand to ruffle his younger brother's mop of dark hair, but Sam jerked his head away before Dean's hand made contact.

Sam turned and stomped away though the impact wasn't what it could be since his feet were in socks rather than boots. He slumped down in front of his laptop and blindly fingered the keys. "I'm still mad at you." Sam's patented bitch-face expression was cemented into place and had been for the last two and a half—no, make that two and three-quarters—days, settling firmly in place once the terrified expression had finally slipped away.

"It was just a purse snatcher."

The younger man's head whipped around, his intense gaze pinning his brother to the floor. "JUST a purse snatcher? Dammit, Dean, that purse snatcher STABBED you in the leg!"

Dean opened his mouth to comment but his brother cut him off. "And if you say 'It was just a flesh wound', I swear I will throw this laptop directly at your head."

"What was I supposed to do, huh Sam? That sack of shit knocked the old lady to the ground and ripped her purse out of her hands right in front of us. I couldn't just let him get away." Dean limped over to his bed and eased down on the edge of the mattress, fighting hard to keep his grimace of pain from showing and failing spectacularly.

"You didn't have to play knight in shining armor saving a damsel in distress!" Sam jerked to his feet, frustration and residual fear boiling over. "You didn't have to chase after the idiot and get a dagger in your leg for your trouble! You didn't have to end up in the hospital with a bag of blood dripping into your vein!"

"But…"

"But nothing! Fuck it all, Dean, I just got you back. I can't…I c-can't l-lose you…" Sam sank back down on the chair, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. "Shit."

"You'd have done the same thing, Sammy, you know you would've. But that's not the point. The point is I'm out of the hospital now, little brother. The doctor said I was fine and let me go."

Sam looked up at his brother, his eyes luminous. Eyes that were incongruous with the scowl darkening his face. "No, the doctor said you should stay a couple of days and you signed yourself out AMA. That's not exactly the same as fine."

The injured hunter shifted and hopped a couple of steps, settling next to Sam. He elbowed him in the side. "Okay, if you wanna be all technical about it… So, c'mon, it's Christmas Eve—whaddaya say we go get something good to eat, huh? I'm starving."

Sam wiped haphazardly at his wet eyes and dried his fingers on the legs of his faded and worn jeans. "You feel up to it? Oh, hell, what am I saying," Sam rolled his eyes and allowed a ghost of a smile to light his face for the first time in many—too many—hours, "of course you feel up to it, it's food."

"Now you're talkin', Mr. Grinch." Dean carefully stood, reaching for his coat and then waiting while his brother pulled on his shoes and his own coat. When his brother was ready, he started for the door.

"Don't forget your cane."

"Aww, Sam, I don't need…"

"Dean. Cane." The commanding tone of Sam's voice was not to be ignored, and it was Dean's turn to don his own patented bitch-face.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Sam pulled into an empty parking space in the lot of the Mother Hubbard's Kitchen Cupboard some twenty minutes later. He exited the Impala and hurried around the car to the open passenger door, feet crunching in the snow. The tang of wood smoke undulated on the frigid currents of air that rattled long-bare branches of the trees lining the street.

"You need help?"

"No, I'm good." Dean grunted a little as he swung his injured right leg from the car first. Once both feet were firmly on the ground, he used the car door and the hated cane as leverage and slowly stood. He waved for Sam to go ahead of him, not surprised when his brother stayed glued to his side as he hitched his way toward the door.

Mother Hubbard's Kitchen Cupboard was a homey little diner located on the central thoroughfare in the small town in which they currently found themselves. Belford. Bradford. Bedford. Something-ford anyway. Compared to some of the places they'd frequented over the years, the Kitchen Cupboard was almost upscale. The restaurant was done up in deep shades of blue and green and smelled of fresh-baked gingerbread and warm spices. Tiny Christmas lights twinkled in the front window, dripped from the ceiling. And a merrily decorated Christmas tree stood sentinel by the door. Dean looked around a bit nervously, noting the cozy family atmosphere with some trepidation.

"Stop fidgeting, Dean," hissed Sam under his breath, "It's the only place open on the holiday."

Dean went still as a pretty 40-something brunette in a fuzzy red sweater and a necklace of jingle bells approached. "Good evening, gentlemen. Merry Christmas!"

"Uh, Merry Christmas." The brothers offered their season's greetings simultaneously.

"Just two of you this evening?"

"Yes," answered Sam, "it's just us."

She smiled. "Right this way then." Noticing Dean's cane and pronounced limp, she added, "I'll put you right here near the door if you'd prefer."

Uncomfortable being center of attention no matter how brief, Dean nevertheless sent a megawatt smile in her direction. "That'd be great. Thanks."

Once they were seated, the brunette said, "My name's Margaret. I'll be your server this evening. Because of the holiday, we're not offering our regular menu tonight. Instead you have your choice of two special holiday meals. We have glazed ham with au gratin potatoes, candied yams, and corn pudding. Or oven-roasted turkey with mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing, and creamed peas. Both come with hot rolls, your choice of coffee or tea, and dessert—either pecan pie or apple pie. Either pie can be served a la mode if you prefer."

Dean kicked his brother's ankle under the table. "Dude, what are au gratin potatoes?"

"Scalloped potatoes but with cheese. You'd like 'em."

"Cool." Dean smiled at Margaret. "I'll have the ham dinner then." He looked at Sam. "But you can take my candied yams."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You like them if you tried them, Dean." He leveled his own dimple-filled smile at the waitress. "I'll have the ham dinner too. Thanks."

Margaret finished writing down their order and grinned back at her two handsome customers, pushing her chin length hair behind her ears. Her eyes were bright behind her glasses. "Let's see—I'm guessing coffee for both of you, right?"

Both brothers nodded.

"Good choices all around. I'll be right back with your hot rolls and coffee."

True to her word, Margaret returned a few minutes later, jingling merrily, with a basket of rolls still warm from the oven and a pot of fresh coffee. "I brought you some homemade brandy butter to go on those rolls. It's Miss Matilda's Christmas specialty." She sat the basket down in the middle of the table before pouring each of them a mug of coffee.

"Can I get you gentlemen anything else while you wait?"

"No, I think we're good. Thanks," responded Sam. His brother was too busy inhaling the tantalizing aroma of toasty bread and brandy butter—a look of near ecstasy plastered on his face. He watched the waitress walk away to another table before teasing, "Might wanna ask for an extra napkin or two, bro. I think you're drooling."

Dean, who was already cutting into a roll, looked up from his task. "I told you I was starving, man. I feel like I haven't eaten for a week."

"Almost three whole days."

"Huh?"

"You've hardly eaten for three days. The antibiotics and pain meds have been making you a little nauseous."

"Oh. Uh." _So you noticed that._ "Yeah." The older Winchester watched the butter melt on his roll. "Still pissed at me?"

"Maybe."

A little piece of bread hit Sam square on the nose. "C'mon, Sammy boy, you know you love me."

The younger man wiped the trace of buttery grease off his nose. "Yeah, well, maybe that's the problem … jerk."

With that one word, Dean knew that all was forgiven. This time anyway. He breathed a sigh of relief and bit into his roll. "Damn that's good. Ya gotta try one!"

They were both starting on their second roll when Margaret arrived with their dinners. Placing their plates in front of them, she trilled, "Enjoy! Just remember to save room for pie."

Dean winked at her. "Ooh, there's always room for pie, beautiful."

She blushed and replied with a soft laugh, "I thought that was Jell-o?"

"Uh uh. Pie. Definitely pie."

The rest of the meal passed in near silence, except for a few appreciative sighs and a quiet 'yuck' when Dean did indeed try a bite of candied yam, as they blissfully enjoyed the holiday repast.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Dean settled in to the soft leather of the passenger seat with a stifled groan. His leg was throbbing but he refused to acknowledge the inconvenience. He watched, strangely content, as his little brother brushed the snow off the car windows. The ever-present torturous memories screaming in his head muffled for the time being.

The driver side door opened and Sam slipped into the Impala, brushing a fair quantity of large flakes of snow from his flyaway chestnut hair. "Wow—it's really coming down out there. Getting colder too." He blew on his bare hands for a second before starting the car. Backing the big, black car out of its parking spot and inching to the exit, he turned in the direction of the motel and carefully hit the gas, feeling the tires slip a bit on the snowy, slushy road.

"Careful with my baby now," admonished Dean.

Several blocks down the road, the older man suddenly spoke again. "Hey, can we stop?"

Sam automatically hit the brakes. "Stop? What? Why—the light's green?"

"No, I mean can we stop there." Dean pointed across the street and Sam did a double take.

"You want to stop at a church?"

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, aware that the request was odd in the extreme, Dean murmured, "Yeah. There's a sign out front that says they're having a Christmas pageant—like," he glanced at his watch, "now. I…um…I thought we could go."

The younger man's gaze bounced between the road in front of him and his brother beside him. To say that he found Dean's request surprising was an understatement. "Uh, sure—why not?" Having already passed the church, Sam turned at the next intersection and doubled back. The church lot was full so he dropped Dean off at the door and drove off in search of somewhere to park.

Joining his older sibling a few minutes later, Sam held out the cane. "Forget something?" He smirked when Dean growled and muttered something unflattering that ended in "pain-in-the-ass little brothers".

They made their way slowly up the stairs and into the church. Approaching the sanctuary, weaving their way through a handful of late-arriving parishioners decked out in all their Christmas finery, Sam tilted his head and whispered, "I think we're a little underdressed."

"That's okay. We're sitting in the back; I don't think anyone'll notice."

Accepting paper programs from one of the greeters, the Winchester brothers entered the sanctuary and settled themselves in the first available empty space in nearest pew. The first strains of organ music greeted their arrival. The congregation stood and began singing _It Came Upon a Midnight Clear_. Sam was shocked to hear his brother's clear, warm tenor join the herald.

Throughout the opening prayer and benediction, the young hunter surreptitiously studied his brother whose expression was downright unreadable. After deciding to dwell on the puzzle that was his older sibling later, Sam turned his attention to the front of the church as the children gathered to tell the story of the nativity.

Dean watched as the costumed children took center stage, their childish voices happy and enthusiastic as they embraced their roles. From the depths, a long-forgotten memory surfaced.

"_Deanie, you are going to be the best little Wise Man." Mary Winchester smiled as she fixed the costume head covering over blond curls._

"_Mommy?" Wide green eyes peeked from beneath a fringe of bangs._

"_Yes, honey?"_

"_Is wise man the same thing as wiseass? 'Cause I heard daddy say Tommy Barton is a wiseass."_

_Mary raised her eyebrows and bit her lip to keep from laughing. "No, Dean, wise man is not the same as wiseass and that's a bad word. Your daddy needs to learn to watch his language around little pitchers with big ears."_

_A frown formed between the three-year-old's blond eyebrows, scrunching his freckles. "Huh?"_

"_Nevermind, sweetie. I just need to have a talk with your daddy. Now let's finish getting you ready for the Christmas pageant."_

A soft chuckle from his left drew Sam's attention to Dean. Wondering what was so funny, he leaned down a bit and whispered, "What?"

Dean shook his head. "I'll tell you later," he whispered in return.

The rest of the play went quickly, proud parents beaming while the story unfolded. When it was finished, the minister invited the congregation to participate in the last portion of the pageant which was the singing of Christmas carols by candlelight. One candle was lit, then two and soon a cascade of tiny flames illuminated the sanctuary. When every candle was alight, the first notes of _Away in a Manager_ sounded.

It was near the end of the first carol that Sam heard a strangled gasp and looked over to see his brother ashen-faced and trembling. "Dean?" Before he could say anything else, Dean dropped his candle and hobbled out of the pew and up the aisle, disappearing through the door.

Though worried, the youngest Winchester had the presence of mind to snuff his candle and make sure the one Dean dropped was out before grabbing the abandoned cane and bolting from the sanctuary in search of his brother. He found him hunched on a bench in the small lobby and approached warily. "Dean? You okay?"

Dean straightened and cleared his throat. A tinge of red dusted his cheekbones. "Yeah, I-I'm okay."

"What happened?"

"Uhh, it was—it was just all those candles—the flickering flames—all together like that—just—just…"

"You had a flashback?"

Dean dropped his chin to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, embarrassed and ashamed. "Yeah."

"Listen, why don't we get out of here and head back to the motel?"

"No. Let's stay. I-I like the music."

The brothers stayed there in the lobby and listened to blended voices of the congregants joyously filling the church with song. The last reverent strains of _Silent Night_ were dying away as they slipped out of the church.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

The rumble of the Impala's engine ceased as Sam turned the key in the ignition. "I can't believe how much snow fell while we were in that church. Guess this is what they mean by winter wonderland, huh?" He didn't expect a response; Dean had been quiet the entire ride back to the motel. He pushed his way out of the car, hearing Dean do the same. Sam was at the door, ready to push the keycard in the lock, when he realized his brother wasn't behind him. He spun around and was surprised to see Dean awkwardly limping his way to the small empty field next to the motel. He jogged over to join him, growing curious when Dean bent over and began to form a ball of snow.

"What're you doing?"

"Building a snowman." The hunter relished the cold, wet feel of snow beneath his fingers.

Sam's mouth dropped open. "You're building a—what the hell, Dean? It's almost 11 o'clock at night!"

Dean glanced over his shoulder, a corner of his mouth tilted upward. "So? Is there some law saying snowmen can't be built after a certain time of night?"

Huffing out a breath, Sam muttered, "No. But you're kinda starting to…uh…scare me a little bit. Are you sure you're okay? Your leg's okay?"

Dean rolled the ball in the white fluff to add another layer. "I'm fine, Sammy. I—I'm just trying to do something…normal."

"Oh."

A few seconds ticked by in silence.

Then out of nowhere, a round mass impacted with the side of Dean's head. White, wet shrapnel cascaded down, burrowing underneath the collars of his shirts, melting on contact with his warm skin. He yelped in surprise, a shiver running down his spine. "Dude! Did—did you just hit me with a snowball?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"'cause I'm just trying to do something…normal...too," Sam replied cheekily.

Another snowball found its mark.

"Oh, you are goin' down, little brother! You hear me," Dean chortled, "you're goin' down."

Ten minutes later, Sam threw his arms up in the air and surrendered. "Okay, okay—I give up!" he laughed, somewhat breathlessly. He was soaked and starting to shiver.

"Ha! Told ya!"

"I don't know what you're crowing about—I gave as good as I got." It was true. Dean was also soaked. "C'mon, let's get in the room before WE'RE the snowmen."

Dean snorted and limped after his little brother.

Once inside the room, Sam grabbed towels from the bathroom, tossing one to Dean while rubbing his own briskly over his wet hair. He grabbed sweatpants and a dry t-shirt out of his duffle and disappeared into the bathroom to change. When he emerged, warm and dry, a few minutes later, he found Dean similarly clad and stretched out on his bed, his face pale, brackets of pain framing his mouth.

"How's your leg? Does it need re-bandaging?"

"N-No. It's good."

Grabbing Dean's bottle of pain medication, he shook one into the palm of his hand and held it out. "Don't even bother arguing. Just take it."

Accepting defeat, Dean did as asked without complaint.

"I'm gonna make hot chocolate. Want some?"

Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes. "That actually sounds pretty good. But before you do, hand me my duffle."

Sam picked up Dean's duffle bag and sat it down on the bed, turning to go make the cocoa.

"Wait a second."

He stopped, watching as Dean rifled through the bag.

A second later, Dean pulled out a greeting card and handed it to his brother. He cleared his throat. "Merry Christmas, Sammy."

Touched, Sam opened the envelope and pulled out the card. Something fluttered from its confines and drifted to the floor. Sam bent down, picked it up. It was a photograph depicting he and Dean sprawled on opposite ends of Bobby's couch asleep, heads canted at awkward angles.

"Turn it over."

Sam did so and found another picture glued to the back. One of he and Dean at a much younger age. Sleeping on the exact same couch, almost in the exact same positions.

"Bobby found the older one somewhere. And when—just after—I…came back, he…uh…we fell asleep while doing research and he—you know—grabbed his camera. I-I thought you might like 'em. I know it's a lame gift but…"

Sam shook his head. "No, I love it. Don't really have too many pictures of us—young or old. Thank you." He opened the card and felt his heart clench. Beneath the generic holiday greeting Dean had written:

_It's good to be home, little brother._

_Dean_

"It's good to have you home, big brother."

Dean dropped his eyes, suddenly finding the faded blue bedspread utterly fascinating. "So, how about that hot chocolate?"

"Yeah, okay. But I've got something for you too."

"Really?"

Sam grabbed his own bag and reached inside. He pulled out a small wrapped box and handed it over. "Merry Christmas, Dean."

Dean made short work of the wrapping paper and yanked the top off the box. Nestled inside was a braided length of leather—a bracelet—with three small semi-precious stones anchored in the center. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"It's a healing bracelet."

"Healing? You mean, like for my leg?"

"Umm, no. For your…soul. The bluish-green one is amazonite. It's known for giving some relief to those who are suffering from emotional disturbances. The brownish-black one is smokey quartz—it disperses negative patterns and vibrations, and transmits a high quantity of light. The translucent golden one is amber. It's supposed to be calming, absorbs negative energy, and helps the body to heal itself." _It also helps with depression and suicidal tendencies._ Sam kept that tidbit to himself.

Dean wrapped the leather cord around his wrist and motioned for Sam to tie it. "Hey, thanks. Maybe…maybe it'll…help."

"I hope so."

"Yeah. Me too."

"Okay, time for hot chocolate." Sam padded to the little kitchenette to prepare the treat.

When he returned five minutes later, he found Dean fast asleep, the fingers of one hand resting atop the semi-precious stones of the bracelet on the opposite wrist. The creases of pain were gone, and he had the slightest of smiles on his face.

Sam sighed and settled on his own bed, placing Dean's cup on the nightstand and cradling his own in his hands. "It's good to have you home, big brother."

Leaning back against the headboard, he flicked on the television, just in time to see the opening credits for _It's a Wonderful Life_.

_Well, our life might not be exactly wonderful, but it's ours._

He took another fortifying sip of his cocoa.

_**Fin**_


End file.
